


Cardboard Cut

by DreamingStill



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Season/Series 04, Short One Shot, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingStill/pseuds/DreamingStill
Summary: While down in the archives Kent finds his evening going from bad to worse as he ends up with a nasty cardboard cut. The last thing he wants is for his boss, DI Chandler, to walk in, but that's exactly what happens.
Relationships: Joseph Chandler/Emerson Kent
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Cardboard Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small little Kendler one shot, that I finally finished after it sat half done on my laptop for years.  
> I also created an aesthetic/moodboard to go with this fic which you can see below.  
> Unbeta'd so forgive any mistakes. Enjoy!

Kent was on his fifth consecutive night down in the archives, and the stale smell of cardboard boxes and ageing paper hung in the air, clinging to his nostrils.

At this point the smell followed him everywhere, even when he was not actually in the archives. At night when trying to sleep he would see the rows of boxes and never-ending stacks of paper. They plagued him and yet he continued to volunteer to work down there.

After the events with the doomsday cult and Iver, everything seemed to change. There had been no more murder cases. Their team somehow always missed them; either the cases were assigned to other teams or in the end it turned out not to be murder.

DI Chandler too had been quite altered by the events. He dragged himself through each day like a broken man, going through an arduous period of needing everything to be ordered. They were all quick to do their best, even Ed tidied up the archives and stopped getting in new files for a time. Things eased as time went by, an errand piece of paper, a stray crisp bag, a precariously stacked pile of reports, fresh batches of archive files – they all lost their vexing nature.

Nonetheless there was still work to be done. Domestic and criminal cases to investigate, reports to write, court trials to attend; and as the weeks tuned into months the team slowly became used to the lack of murder cases. They fell into a sort of limbo, a liminal space where the map and the provocateur became incrementally less important, until one day the team just stopped mentioning them.

The most galling thing for Kent over the intervening months was that Mansell was still dating Erica, much to his displeasure. As her twin brother he could not help but be wary of Mansell’s track record of cheating and how much he could hurt his sister.

Kent, on the whole, was doing quite well. At least he thought so, especially as he had been struggling less and less with his anger issues. For as long as he could remember he had felt his emotions more keenly than his sister or any of his friends and family. Alongside these intense emotions had been an ever-present darker side, but most of the time he could control the anger. It was only on the rare occasions that it would spill over and he would lash out, however, in the previous year he had increasingly struggled with that darkness inside him. He was much better now than a few months ago, but there were times when it still burst out of him, uncontrolled.

Erica had the same darkness, but it a much more subtle darkness than his. “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” was a saying that came to mind. Erica could be cold and calculating, and she would strike when you least expected it. As Kent himself had learned when they were growing up and later so too did the gang of bullies in their secondary school.

Kent sighed heavily shaking his head to try and clear his wandering thoughts and lamented the amount of work that had to be done.

In order to appease Ed’s continued requests for an assistant, a rota had been set up by Chandler where each of the team had to help in the archives for two days a month. Unfortunately, the idea did not pan out quite the way the DI had wished. No one had particularly wanted to go down to the archives, much less spend hours down there, and it was not long before people were trying to get out of having to do the new assignment.

It had begun with Mansell, Riley had been next, and then even DS Miles had started to rebel. Mansell and Riley had been quick to find excuses to avoid doing their shifts. Chandler was having none of it and had stated in no uncertain terms that if anyone felt they could not go down to the archives then they could leave the team.

Vocal rebelling had stopped from that point forward, however, covert mutiny continued. Soon Mansell was trying to pay everyone on the team just to take his shift. Kent, in need of extra rent money, had naively said yes once to Mansell and the next thing he knew everyone began asking him to take their shifts. More out of a sense of obligation than anything else, he nearly always agreed. Although despite his grumblings the opportunity for some extra money was very welcome all the same.

So as the weeks went by Kent soon found himself becoming a semi-permanent fixture in the archives. There were times when he did not mind, even loved, working in the quiet and still archives, while at other times he felt like he would happily commit murder if it meant he could get out it, if only for a few days.

Tonight, was one of the evenings where he resented being there. Ed had long since left, muttering something about research as he scurried out the door leaving Kent alone with the files. That night’s job was to reorganise supposed paranormal murders and killings and get them ready for Ed to cross reference. Cross referencing was, as Kent had learnt to his peril, a job for only a “trained professional,” that being Ed Buchan and Ed Buchan only. While Kent had looked murderers in the eye, there was nothing scarier than Ed Buchan on the war path.

Kent huffed as he moved yet another box from what seemed like an endless pile onto the table. He sifted through the files checking the reference numbers and once satisfied they were correct, he moved them onto the shelf.

He turned back to grab another box, however as he picked up the box it slipped from his grasp. An intense pain laced up through his right hand.

“Shit!” he hissed, a sharp throbbing radiating up from his palm. Knowing what would be there but not wanting to look, Kent pressed his hands together in an attempt to dull the stinging. When that failed to work, he reluctantly glanced down. His fear was confirmed as he watched drops of blood well up from a large and angry cardboard cut.

A flash of anger at being so careless bubbled up with in him.

“Fuck!” he snarled and lashed out kicking a box at the bottom of a tall pile which caused the entire pile to topple over, boxes opening on their descent spilling their contents about the room.

The moment of rage passed as quickly as it had risen, and Kent was left staring in dismay at the mess he had made. A room blanketed in yellowing paper.

“Argh!” he groaned loudly at the ceiling in regret and frustration, not knowing where to begin the clean-up.

“Is everything alright in there?” a voice called from down the hall outside the archives.

Kent nearly groaned again, he knew that voice. And its owner was the last person he wanted seeing him in this state.

“It’s alright, sir,” Kent called as Chandler entered the room, “I just knocked over some boxes.”

Chandler’s eyes swept around the room taking in the scene before him, “That’s not all you did,” he said, nodding at Kent’s injured hand.

“It’s nothing, sir. Really.”

“Here, let me have a look,” Chandler said, gesturing for Kent to hold up his hand.

Kent’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment when Chandler made a disapproving noise at the sight of the cut.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, sir.”

Chandler looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“Honestly. I’ll just give it a wash and put a plaster on it. It’ll be fine.”

“Like Riley’s hand was fine?”

“I... um... that’s not what I... I mean I wouldn’t...” Kent trailed off unsure of how to respond.

Chandler gave him an expectant look, waiting for him to respond.

Chandler detested blood, but as he looked at Kent, he found that his dislike was not so dire that it stopped him from wanting to help Kent. He knew with almost complete certainty that Kent was never going to get the cut cleaned up properly, and who know what kind of bacteria and dirt resided on the boxes down in the archives. 

Kent began to fidget under the forceful gaze of his boss. “It’ll be fine.”

Chandler was unimpressed by Kent’s lack of a coherent or reassuring response and looked pointedly at the drops of blood making their slow path down the side of Kent’s hand.

“Nonsense. You need to get that cleaned up. Come on.”

“Sir?” Kent’s brow furrowed in confusion. Was the DI going to help him, himself?

Chandler gave a small sigh and the corners of his lips twitched, “You’re going to have a hard time cleaning it up one handed.”

Kent gave a small smile in acquiescence, “Sir.”

Chandler led the way back upstairs, first to his office to pick up some supplies from the first-aid kit and then to the toilets.

Having set everything out Chandler turned to Kent, “First things first, you need to wash that hand,” Chandler pointed to Kent’s right hand which was covered in dust and dirt from the archives.

Keeping his injured hand out of the way, Kent attempted to wash his left hand.

Chandler tisked at the younger man’s pathetic attempts to wash his hand. “Here, let me.”

Kent stared month agape as Chandler carefully and methodically cleaned his uninjured hand before moving onto the injured one.

It was such a strange sight to see his boss tending to him like this, but the feeling of being taken care of made Kent feel warm and content. Safe. It almost felt like affection. Kent’s mind quickly reeled back from that thought. No, he could not go there. That train of thought would only lead to pain.

They had never gone for the drink after what happened with the doomsday cult, and Chandler had barely looked at him for weeks after, only deigning to speak to him to bark out orders. That had been a bleak and lonely time for Kent, and he did not want to get his hopes up again.

Satisfied that Kent’s hands were clean Chandler softly patted them dry with a towel and reached for the antiseptic. He lightly dabbed the antibacterial covered paper towel over and around the wound. A small hiss of pain escaped from Kent’s lips.

“Sorry,” Chandler murmured, not looking up.

“It’s okay,” Kent replied, embarrassed by his show of weakness.

Once the wound and surrounding skin was a sterile Chandler grabbed the bandage. He cupped Kent’s hand with both of his and gently placed the bandage over the cut. With a furrowed brow he smoothed the edges, making sure there were no errand creases or rogue air bubbles.

Kent’s breath hitched as he watched Chandler’s thumbs graze across his skin intent on eradicating any mistakes. The hope he had tried to quell minutes earlier rose within him with renewed strength.

“There,” Chandler said at last with an air of pride in his work. He leaned back and looked at Kent, but he did not remove his hands.

Their eyes met and neither one could look away. The closeness and intimacy of the situation held them still.

Kent’s heart hammered in his chest, his DI, the man whom he had held a torch for since he first saw him, had just washed and bandaged his hand, and now stood not two feet away from him still cradling his injured hand.

A reckless idea grew in Kent’s mind as he looked back down at their hands. He took a step closer and with small and hesitant movements Kent began to stroke the inside of Chandler’s hand with the back of his thumb.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Chandler and Kent glanced up quickly fearing the worst. However, his fears were unfounded as Chandler’s gaze was fixed on their hands and he showed no signs of wanting to move.

Kent continued his slow and gentle movements, now making slow lazy circles, and Chandler made a most uncharacteristic gesture, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. Feeling emboldened by Chandler’s unexpected motion, Kent began to move his fingers, up and down gently stroking Chandler’s palm with the back of his fingers. Kent turned his hand over and slowly dragged his fingers up and down from palm to fingertips. Up and down he moved, from one hand to the other and back again all along Chandler’s soft hands.

Kent risked a glance up at Chandler whose eyes were following Kent’s fingers with a strange intensity and he made that gesture with his tongue again. To have elicited such an uncharacteristic gesture from Chandler, not once but twice, gave Kent heady rush of emotion.

His heart pounding, his body warm from the flush of heat that spread throughout him and settled low in his abdomen, Kent bent over and pressed a chaste kiss to Chandler’s left palm. Another sharp intake of breath came from Chandler, but he still did not pull away.

Kent continued to press small kisses all over both Chandler’s hands. When he reached Chandler’s thumb he looked up, directly into the older man’s eyes. The desire Kent felt was reflected back at him in the blue eyes and he let his tongue dart out and lick the tip of the thumb.

Chandler left out a sound that could only be described as a moan as Kent began to suck on his thumb.

“Emerson,” Chandler breathed, as his free hand slipped up the side of the young man’s face, tangling in the dark locks.

“Emerson,” Chandler repeated after some moments, this time with more conviction but it was still somewhat breathy, and he began to move his hand away.

Kent straightened, his cheeks flushed from a mixture of exhilaration and awkwardness, and Chandler’s his hand slid from his hair down to his shoulder.

Both men stared at each other, taking deep breaths.

Need and desire urging him on, Chandler gripped Kent’s shoulder and pulled him in close, pressing a kiss roughly to his lips before drawing back a little, his quick breaths drifting across Kent’s face.

Kent, who had not been expecting the kiss was determined to not let that be the only one. He placed his hands on Chandler’s waist and pressed their bodies more closely together.

Chandler’s hand made its way back into Kent’s hair, while his other wrapped tightly around Kent’s body, and Kent gripped a fistful of Chandler’s jacket

They kissed again. The kiss was deeper, full of need and hunger, as five years of silent longing and desire was at last ended.

Kent opened his mouth and Chandler’s tongue slipped inside. He explored every millimetre of Kent’s mouth and caused Kent to moan in pleasure more than once. He teased the younger man’s tongue and coaxed it into his own mouth to which Kent responded enthusiastically.

When they at last broke apart, breathing heavily, they leaned into each other, their foreheads touching. Chandler just closed his eyes and basked in the moment his fingers teasing some of the smaller curls at the back of Kent’s neck; while Kent practically hummed with contentment and no small amount of wonder at what had just happened.

The moment was somewhat ruined by a loud grumbling coming from Kent’s stomach.

Kent mumbled an embarrassed, “Sorry,” and gave Chandler a sheepish look as they stepped back from each other. Chandler offered him a small reassuring smile before he looked away and his brow furrowed in thought.

Kent, suddenly worried that Chandler might be thinking that it was all a mistake and regretting what had happen, opened his mouth to start apologising but he never got the chance.

Chandler gazed at him with an expression of determination tinged with uncertainty, “Would you, that is, would you...” Chandler trailed off, the uncertainty winning.

“Yes?” Kent asked, a hopeful look playing across his face.

“Would you like to go out for dinner? With me?”

“Yes!” Kent beamed.

Kent’s emphatic agreement made Chandler smile. He nodded, “I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Kent said, and he turned to leave but stopped when Chandler spoke again, “Joe.”

Kent turned back confused.

“You can call me Joe. Emerson.”

Kent grinned, “Yes, s- Joe.”

Chandler watched with a tender expression as his Kent practically skipped out the door on his way back down to the archives.

Chandler cleaned up around the sink and washed his hands, smiling again to himself. Thanks to a little cardboard cut he was feeling happier than he had in a very long time.

***

Fin


End file.
